


I've waited and watered my heart til it grew

by grasslandgirl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, MAG159, Mutual Pining, POV Martin Blackwood, canon-typical lonely, i just really wanted them to be happy and safe, it's a Scottish Honeymoon fic!!, making tea as a love language, post mag159 and pre mag160, there was only one bed! (obviously), they just take care of each other for 7 thousand words that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grasslandgirl/pseuds/grasslandgirl
Summary: As they walked, Martin slowly became aware that the fog around them was also thinning out. He could make out vague lights and distant noises that sounded almost like London street traffic, and without thinking about it, he squeezed Jon’s hand. Jon squeezed back, so immediate that Martin knew it had to be an instinctive response. A silent answer-I know, I’m here, we’re almost there, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere-to a question Martin hadn’t realized he had asked....Like he could feel Martin’s eyes on him (maybe he could) Jon turned. His eyes were tired as he looked at Martin, and worried. But he smiled at him- small and watery and incalculably comforting- and squeezed Martin’s hand again like he knew what Martin was thinking. (Maybe he did.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 40
Kudos: 354





	I've waited and watered my heart til it grew

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Goodbye My Danish Sweetheart by Mitski, which is an INCREDIBLY martin blackwood song and makes me Lose My Mind when i listen to it!!  
> thanks bunches and bunches to Maggie (@meverri on ao3 and @hundred-separate-lines on tumblr) and Mary (@sickoflosiingsoulmates on ao3 and @stcviebudd on tumblr) for reading and beta'ing for me!!! <33

Martin’s hand was warm. Just the one, really, just where Jon had it gripped firmly in his own. Martin had forgotten how warm the human body could- _should-_ be. How long had it been since he touched another person for more than a passing second? When was the last time he had had even that much contact? It felt like years, and Martin felt cold down to his bones. It was the deep, creeping kind of cold, where you don’t notice it until it’s too late and it’s already seeped too deep into your body to be warded off or warmed away, and blankets and jackets only seem to bury the cold deeper, their warmth never going past the surface.

How long had Martin been cold? His time in the Lonely felt like it had lasted somewhere between ten minutes and ten years; lost in the faint waves and the dusty sand that stretched out to infinity.

And then Jon had appeared, and his eyes had burned into Martin, and his voice had echoed through the waves, and Martin had woken up. Not all the way- not yet, he didn’t think- but enough that he felt his breath kickstart in his chest again, and he felt everything buried so deep he’d long since forgotten about it rise to the top. 

And Martin had cried, and Jon had pulled Martin’s face into his shoulder, and he had wrapped his thin arms around Martin’s body, and Martin had felt something unsteady and shaking in his chest shift back into place.

Jon’s eyes were still burning, cutting their way through the fog of the Lonely as he led Martin by the hand. Martin felt the full weight of the Lonely bearing down on him, more than he had before Jon had found him, before Jon had pulled him halfway out. It was like a heavy quilt, but without any of the warmth. Cold and oppressive, it hung on Martin’s chest, and he had to focus on every inhale and exhale. He timed his breaths with Jon’s. 

He felt both their pulses thumping in their clasped hands, so close in proximity and tempo that they were nearly indistinguishable. Martin focused on that- on the breathing and the heartbeats and the warmth of Jon’s hand- and felt the fog in his head slowly start to disperse. 

As they walked, Martin slowly became aware that the fog around them was also thinning out. He could make out vague lights and distant noises that sounded almost like London street traffic, and without thinking about it, he squeezed Jon’s hand. Jon squeezed back, so immediate that Martin knew it had to be an instinctive response. A silent answer- _I know, I’m here, we’re almost there, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere-_ to a question Martin hadn’t realized he had asked. 

Lost in thought, fighting through the remaining fog lingering at the corners of his mind, Martin blinked and realized all at once that they were out- that Jon had led them out of the Lonely and it had deposited them on a street corner. It was twilight, the last few seconds before full dark hit, and Martin could see the edges of the sunset creeping out in pinks and purples from beyond the shops and houses on the street. The depth of the colors startled him; even in the dim light of the waning sunlight and the streetlamps, the world around them seemed oversaturated and glaring. Martin hadn’t realized how muted and grey-scale the Lonely had been until now. He glanced at Jon- who was still holding his hand, firm in a way that implied it was intentional, not habit- and found he was looking at the street signs, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed into a tiny, discerning frown. 

Martin wanted to say a million things; to thank Jon, to ask him how he’d found Martin in the Lonely, why he’d come after him in the first place, to ask how he’d found their way out, ask what had happened with Elias- Jonah- and Peter, to tell Jon he was sorry, to ask where they were, to say he loved him- but all Martin’s words died on his tongue.

Like he could feel Martin’s eyes on him (maybe he could) Jon turned. His eyes were tired as he looked at Martin, and worried. But he smiled at him- small and watery and incalculably comforting- and squeezed Martin’s hand again like he knew what Martin was thinking. (Maybe he did.) 

Jon took a deep, steadying breath and glanced at the street around them one more time before nodding to himself. “Right,” he muttered, “Martin?”

“Jon.” Martin breathed, his voice thin and unsteady, even to his own ear.

Jon smiled faintly again. “With everything with Elias-”

“Jonah,” Martin interjected, quietly but firmly.

Jon paused, a surprise written on his face that Martin read less as surprise that Elias was Jonah, but surprise that Martin knew, “Yes, Jonah. And what happened with Peter, and the Not-Them, and the hunters-”

“Hunters?”

“Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk, followed me here from America and are determined to kill me.”

“Sounds familiar,” Martin said, surprising even himself. He hadn’t expected humor- even dry, sardonic humor- so soon after the Lonely. Jon looked faintly surprised again, but then he smiled. 

“I suppose that’s fair. Either way, I don’t think it would be safe for us to go back to the Institute, even if either of us wanted to…?” Jon trailed off, the cadence of his voice turning the statement into a subtle question, and Martin shook his head in a silent answer. He had no desire to go back to the Institute, even if there was anything left for him there other than dusty, painful memories. “Right.” Jon repeated, and then frowned. Jon reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone, which was quietly buzzing. “Basira,” he said into the phone, answering it. “How’s- oh. Oh. Basira, I’m-” She interrupted him, her voice a muffled drone emanating from the phone, saying something Martin couldn’t make out. “Right. Right. Yes, he’s-” Jon paused again, head tilted in consideration. His eyes slid to Martin, away, and back again. “I suppose we can do that- or,” Jon frowned, and tapped his finger against the back of his phone, three times in quick succession. “I’ll ask him. I see. Yes, right- I, I understand. I’ll call you when I’m- we’re- _I’m_ there. Of course.” Jon hesitated, glancing once more at Martin with an expression he couldn't parse. “Basira? Be safe?” Jon’s phone clicked as he hung up, and Jon looked at the empty screen for a moment before tucking it back into his pocket. 

Martin squeezed his hand, an impulse he didn’t consider until after he’d already done it. He hadn’t realized they were still holding hands, hadn’t noticed how quickly it had become second nature- holding onto each other like a lifeline, communicating silently through the link between them. 

Jon watched Martin carefully for a moment; his expression tired and worried and drawn. 

“Basira, ah, Basira says we should leave town. With Elias escaping and the Institute under attack and my… history with the police; she can’t guarantee that they won’t dig into either of us as suspects if we stay. She… Daisy has- had- _has_ a safe house, in Scotland. Basira told me how to get there, where the key is… Martin,” Jon paused, and Martin could read the rest of his question in Jon’s face. He squeezed Jon’s hand; half encouragement, half answer. “Come with me?” Jon asked weakly.

Martin nodded. 

* * *

They went to Jon’s flat first. Jon hesitated in the doorway, looking out into a small kitchen that led into the rest of the apartment, before stepping inside. They were still holding hands. 

It was cluttered, and dusty- Jon clearly hadn’t spent much time there in a while. Martin pushed the door shut as he stepped inside after Jon, locking the door behind them; an old habit, after everything that happened with Prentiss. 

“Help yourself to… anything,” Jon told him, glancing around at the near-bereft kitchen. “I don’t know what’s still good, if anything, but I’ll- I’ll be right back.” He squeezed Martin’s hand, and something inside Martin’s chest clenched at the idea of not having Jon beside him, grounding him, anymore. Like if Jon went into the next room, Martin might just fade right back into the Lonely. Jon frowned, more concerned than upset, “I’m not going anywhere, I just need to pack a small bag and- I’ll be right back, Martin. I’m not… I’m not going to leave you.”

The unspoken _again_ hung in the air between them. 

Martin nodded, hoping he didn’t look as unsteady as he felt.

It’s not that he didn’t understand, or thought that Jon was abandoning him, or that he wanted to go back into the Lonely- it was the opposite of all those things, mixed with the baffling, undeniable fear that if Jon walked away, Martin would never see him again. 

Jon squeezed his hand once more, before slipping out of Martin’s grip and crossing the kitchen alone. When he turned the corner of the hallway and into another room, Martin pressed his hands- both of them- to his face. One of them was still warm. 

He spun in a tight circle, scanning the small kitchen. It was tidy in the way that rarely-used things are tidy; clean because they never had the opportunity to be messy. Martin saw a kettle- electric, and old- sitting on the counter, covered in a thin layer of dust. 

_Tea._

He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, focused on how the air filled up his chest, his stomach- envisioned it stretching down to his toes and out to his fingers- clean and open. Pushing out the dense, close fog from the Lonely. 

Tea, he could do. Tea, he was good at. 

In one of Jon’s cabinets, Martin found tea bags and in another, mugs. The milk in the fridge had long since gone bad, but Martin managed to scrounge up a little sugar- for Jon- and honey- for him. When the water boiled, Martin focused on the ritual of tea-making. When to pour the water, how to add the tea, the sweetener, how much of both, the length of the steep. He let the familiar routine, the mundane rhythm ground him. 

When the mugs were done- green with honey for him, and black, steeped long and dark with a generous amount of sugar for Jon- Martin sat at the small table, hands wrapped around his mug. He tried not to watch the wisps of steam, curling and dissipating; so similar to the fog in the Lonely, to the mist that hung around Peter Lukas, and that had- at the very end- started to hang around Martin, too. 

Instead, Martin listened to Jon, working briskly in another room in the flat. Focused on his footsteps, the creaking of the floorboards, the sound of Jon’s faint humming.

 _Has Jon always hummed like that?_ Martin wondered, tapping his fingers along to the faint melody. It felt familiar, somehow, but Martin couldn’t remember whether he’d ever heard Jon hum like that- maybe once or twice, back in the old days. Before they all got transferred to the Archives, before Prentiss and Sasha and Gertrude and- before everything crumbled down around their ankles. 

Maybe.

What does it mean, that he’s humming now?

The mug was warm in Martin’s hands, and he told himself the new warmth- or maybe it was just the absence of cold, but what is the difference, really?- was just the tea doing it’s work.

Jon wasn’t humming when he came back into the kitchen, but the melody circled in Martin’s head- a light, looping song that he almost remembered from somewhere. Jon had a new sweater and jacket on, and a bag pulled over his shoulder, but he paused when he saw Martin sitting at the table. A cluster of emotions flickered across Jon’s face, so quickly Martin only caught a few of them- surprise, relief, grief, gratitude- before it relaxed into a small smile. 

That smile- Martin felt like he couldn’t look at it head on, only able to catch edges and pieces of it without feeling like he was going to fall apart. That smile- tremulous and disbelieving and so small, it broke Martin’s heart how small it was. Like Jon didn’t let himself smile larger, or that he had forgotten how- Martin didn’t know which was worse. That smile- so weighted; with history, with grief, with something so close to hope it scared Martin. 

“Tea,” Jon breathed; like he meant _thank you,_ like he meant _of course,_ like he meant _I understand._ He grabbed the mug sitting across from Martin, sliding his hand between the handle and the body of the mug, so it was flush against the side. Long, thin fingers, connected to a deft hand, spotted with scars and marks. Martin could still remember what that hand felt like, pressed against his own. Jon closed his eyes as he took a slow sip from the mug, and Martin watched as his shoulders relaxed and he pulled the mug tight against his chest, the steam wafting gently into Jon’s face. Jon opened his eyes, “Perfect,” he told Martin, pointedly and gently. 

Martin knew they were both remembering all the other cups of tea they had- and hadn’t- shared over the years. Remembering how and why Martin knew so well how to make Jon tea the precise way he liked it. 

Neither of them said anything. 

Jon put his bag on the ground and sat at the table across from Martin. And despite the late hour, despite the urgency to get out of London hanging over their heads, the two of them sat in silence in Jon’s empty kitchen and finished their tea.

* * *

They held hands again, all the way to Martin’s flat. 

They didn’t talk about it- what would either of them have said?- just gripped each other tightly as they walked. Briefly, on the Tube, Martin leaned his head against Jon’s shoulder, and listened to him breathe, deep and steady.

Martin was faintly surprised when they arrived at his flat, to find that he still had his keys in his jacket pocket- something he hadn’t even considered until that very moment. He expected them to be there, and they had. He didn’t have the energy to think any deeper into it. 

As he opened the door and let Jon in- not yet willing to let go of his hand- Martin suddenly reflected on the status of his flat. It was more lived in than Jon’s had been, but that wasn’t saying much. It was clean, but distant. Martin suddenly realized he had never hung any photos on the walls, no art or personal effects. His flat looked like something out of a magazine- devoid of anything specifically Martin. His books and photos and things were all packed away in boxes in a closet, he remembered that much, but it was only through looking through the eyes of a guest- through _Jon’s_ perspective- that Martin realized how odd… how _lonely_ his barren apartment was. 

It left him shaken, but if Jon noticed anything, he didn’t say. 

“I’ll… be back,” Martin said, echoing what Jon had said earlier.

Jon nodded, and squeezed Martin’s hand, “I’ll be here.” Like he knew exactly what Martin needed to hear.

Maybe he did. 

Martin let go of Jon’s hand and went back to his bedroom. He threw clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag he had shoved into his closet, and at the last minute, he pulled out one of the boxes, pushed into the back. At the very top was a photograph in a frame; Martin, Tim, and Jon at a work party. Tim had his arms slung over both their shoulders, Martin on one side and Jon on the other, and had a wide, wild grin on his face. Jon had his lips pressed together in a thin line that meant he was trying desperately to hide a smile. Martin- the old Martin, the Martin in the photograph who hadn’t yet been tormented by worms or seen a dead body or realized that he worked for an old, evil man- was smiling, soft and small. And he was looking at Jon. 

Martin shoved the frame into his bag, and grabbed a couple notebooks- old poetry, half finished- to take with them as well. He was tired of being forced out of his own life, of having his few happy memories sucked away and replaced with a cold, aching fear by some primordial fear god. Martin was done letting it happen to him. 

As he walked back towards the kitchen, Martin realized he was humming; the same song Jon had been in his flat. 

Jon was standing at the counter with his back to Martin when he went back into the kitchen, but he turned as Martin approached- Martin wasn’t sure whether he’d heard him coming, or simply Known. It didn’t really matter. 

“Martin,” Jon said warmly, handing him a small, wrapped bundle. “I thought we should have something for the road,” he explained, “we have a long night ahead of us and I know neither of us…” Jon pursed his lips and gave his head a small shake, “Anyway. Are you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Martin said, tucking the wrapped sandwich into a side pocket of his duffel, and pushing the strap high onto his shoulder. He slid his hand back into Jon’s, and there was that tiny, devastating smile again. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They took a train to Scotland. Two seats, right next to each other. Jon had the window, Martin the aisle. For a while, they just sat; Jon staring out the window, and Martin staring at Jon. Their clasped hands resting between them. It was dark, and Martin couldn’t make out more than vague shadows and the occasional streetlight out the window, but he wasn’t entirely sure that Jon was actually looking out the window. 

Exhaustion weighed heavily on Martin, but he fought off sleep as long as he could manage; terrified that somehow, if he fell asleep, he would wake up alone. Or worse, he would wake up Lonely. It was an irrational fear, and somewhere deep down Martin knew that, but the knowledge alone wasn’t enough to make him feel safe enough to fall asleep, or to let go of Jon’s hand.

Eventually, Jon looked away from the window, glancing at Martin with the quiet, worried expression he’d been wearing since he pulled Martin from the Lonely. “Martin,” Jon murmured. By way of response, Martin met his eyes. 

By all accounts, by all stretches of logic, Jon should’ve had unnerving eyes. And maybe, to the rest of the world, there was something unnerving or frightening in Jon’s eyes, but Martin never saw it. They were sharp and wary, even before he became the Archivist, and now, they were watching Martin like he was something special. Fragile, and worth protecting, and beautiful. They took Martin’s breath away, Jon’s eyes; but they sort of always had. There was kindness and care in his gaze when he looked at Martin, more than he had ever expected from anyone, let alone Jon. Two years ago, or eight months ago, even; Martin wouldn’t have even believed it from Jon. But sitting there, on that train, heading towards somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, because Jon had _wanted_ him to come; Martin believed. 

And he was very close to letting himself believe one more thing. 

But not yet.

“You should get some sleep, Martin.” Jon squeezed his hand, placing his other one on top, so he had Martin’s hand sandwiched between his own. “It’s been a long night, and…” Jon paused, searching Martin’s face, looking for the right words. “I’m not going anywhere, ok, Martin? I promise you that. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

Martin believed him.

“Alright, Jon.” 

Carefully, Martin leaned his head against Jon’s shoulder, waiting and wondering if he would shift, or pull away as a silent way of asking Martin to move. Jon didn’t. He just leaned his head against Martin’s, and Martin heard him sigh, once, in what sounded like relief. 

“Get some sleep, Jon,” Martin whispered as he closed his eyes.

Jon squeezed his hand again in response, and Martin finally let himself drift into sleep, grounded by Jon’s warmth and the rocking of the train.

* * *

They settled into Daisy’s safe house as best they could. It was tucked at the edge of the village, bordered by two sets of rolling cow pastures, the fluffy highlands wandering on the horizon like tiny brown clouds. 

Martin had spent nearly his entire life in London, and the atmosphere was staggeringly different. It felt like the sky went on for ages in every direction, unmarred by buildings and rooftops, and despite it only being early October, it was already cold. Thankfully, it wasn’t the bone-deep claustrophobic chill of the Lonely, but a brisk, sharp cold that bit at Martin’s nose playfully, and turned the tips of his and Jon’s ears pink. 

Martin was surprised by how much he loved it already. The tidy, quaint cottage- nothing like what he would have expected from Daisy- the docile, friendly cattle that wandered almost freely, the wide, bright sky, already winter-blue. So much of what Martin associated with the Lonely was akin to claustrophobia: getting lost in a tight cloud of fog, being buried in a crowd of apathetic strangers, spiralling in his own too-loud thoughts. There was none of that here, just space and clean air- and Jon.

Jon, who didn’t let go of Martin’s hand unless he had to, and always grabbed for it again as soon as he could. Jon, who Martin would catch smiling at him out of the corner of his eye as they unpacked the meager belongings they had scavenged from their flats. Jon, who handed Martin food and let Martin lean on his shoulder and _watched_ him, so carefully, like he was committing everything to memory. 

It terrified and exhilarated Martin to think that, just maybe, he knew why.

There was only one bed in the safe house. Which, considering that really only Daisy- and maybe Basira- had stayed there, made sense. It was large, and covered in an old, thick quilt that looked heavy and warm. 

Jon took one look at it, glanced at Martin, and simply said, “We’ll share it, Martin?” His question was light, safe, giving Martin ample opportunity to slip out, to ask for them to sleep separate and alone if that was what he needed or wanted. But there wasn’t any uncertainty in Jon’s eyes. Martin knew Jon expected him to agree; but the question was still there- the opportunity still there, if Martin wanted it. _That,_ Martin thought, _means more than the question itself._

Jon wasn’t good with certainty, vulnerability, opening up. But here he was. In every sense of the phrase.

“Yes, Jon,” Martin answered, just as simply; and squeezed Jon’s hand, because he knew it would make Jon smile that tiny, terrible, _wonderful_ smile. 

Their first afternoon in the safe house, Jon put on music- something light and upbeat that both did and didn’t surprise Martin that he would listen to- and together, they started putting the safe house to rights. 

Dusting shelves, sweeping the floors, airing out the linens, opening all the windows, cleaning out the chimney and starting a fire in the fireplace, replacing any light bulbs that had gone out, unpacking their things and putting them away. Martin wasn’t always in the same room as Jon, but even when he wasn’t, he could close his eyes and listen to the music playing in the kitchen downstairs, and somewhere in the cottage- Jon mumbling along to it. It was enough to keep Martin grounded. It was enough to start to really thaw the cold, deep in the core of his chest. It was enough that even if he was alone in a room, Martin didn’t feel quite so lonely.

They walked back to the village to pick up food and tea and a few other things later in the afternoon, holding hands the entire walk both ways. 

That night, Martin built up a raging fire in the fireplace and sat next to Jon in bed, both of them reading a book they’d nicked from Daisy’s bookshelf. It was comfortable, and natural, and warm. And Martin realized with a stuttering breath and a sideways glance at Jon, completely absorbed in his novel, that he felt _warm._ All the way down to his bones, in a way he hadn’t really been since those two awful weeks, trapped by Prentiss in his apartment. Or really, even before that. 

Jon felt his gaze on the side of his face, and turned to look at Martin, quizzical and soft. “Alright, Martin?” 

“Yeah, Jon,” Martin breathed, “I’m alright.” 

And for the first time in a long time, it was true. 

They fell asleep, curled next to each other, holding hands across the center of the bed, cradled by the warmth of the quilt and the last vestiges of the fireplace. Martin knew, in the last few moments of lucidity before falling asleep, that they weren’t ok yet. There was too much history, too many influences from entities and Jonah and Peter for them to be ok so quickly. But maybe, Martin realized, they were getting there. 

* * *

The first morning in the safe house, Martin woke to warm golden light streaming in through the windows, and Jon curled against his chest. Martin had been too exhausted the night before to really think about the reality of sharing a bed with Jon. He was nuzzled into Martin’s chest, half on his side, half on top of Martin, with his hand still tightly curled around Martin’s. Just like it had been when they fell asleep.

Martin’s heart clenched in disbelief and wonder. 

Jon looked so peaceful as he slept, all the worry and frown lines relaxed away, making him look as young as he actually was. So often, Martin felt years- decades, even- older than he was. Probably some combination of having to grow up too fast to tend to his mother and always taking it upon himself to take care of those around him. But lying in bed with Jon on a quiet October morning, Martin felt startlingly and refreshingly young. Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders for maybe the first time in his life.

Like he was happy, and he was finally letting himself feel it.

The early morning light fell across the bed, landing on Jon’s face and painting him gold. Martin had always thought Jon was handsome- irritatingly handsome, at first, and then heart-breakingly, as Jon fell deeper and deeper into what Martin now recognized as the thrall of the Eye. Jon was still thin, even bony in places, and his hair had grown unusually grey for how young he was- how young they both were- but Martin knew the Institute had aged them all in more ways than one. But still, Jon was beautiful. High cheekbones and serious eyebrows, deft hands and a gentle, if rare, smile. 

And he was peacefully, comfortably asleep on top of Martin.

Martin kind of wanted to cry. Not out of sadness, or some ill-conceived belief that he didn’t deserve this. They’d fought for this peace, both of them had, tooth and nail. Martin had dreamed of this- Jon safe and comfortable with him- for longer than he wanted to admit. 

He traced a hand through Jon’s hair, grey and black and greasy, pushing it carefully out of Jon’s sleeping face. Almost in response, Jon shifted and pressed his face closer into Martin’s chest, sighing and tightening his free arm around Martin’s waist. 

Martin hadn’t written poetry in what felt like lifetimes. First, Jon had gone into his coma after the Unknowing, and then he had joined Peter; the Lonely wasn’t a place for poetry, especially not verses about peace or love or warmth. But lying in bed with Jon, Martin realized that he might finally be able to write again- more than that, he might finally _want_ to write again. 

“Golden fingers, through your hair…” he mumbled, tracing his fingers along Jon’s shoulder. “Maybe something about… the dawn? Eos crying tears onto the lawn…”

Jon mumbled something incoherent, before rolling over onto his back and stretching his free arm- the one that wasn’t still holding Martin’s hand, warm and tight and secure- high into the air. He yawned, comically exaggerated, before promptly curling back up against Martin’s side; this time looking up at him with open- albeit tired- eyes. 

“Good morning, Martin,” he mumbled, only slightly more coherent than before.

“Oh,” Martin felt the rushing embarrassment of being caught, his cheeks and ears warming to what he was sure was a bright red, “good morning, Jon.”

“You were saying something…?” Jon trailed off, frowning and trying to blink away the last vestiges of sleep.

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, no, it sounded like… poetry?”

Martin’s face was definitely on fire, and he was tempted to get out of bed and cut this conversation off at the pass, but that felt like something he would’ve done when he was working for Peter, serving the Lonely. And Jon was looking up at him, curious and smiling tenderly… 

“I- uh, yeah. Just… something. An idea for a verse or two, nothing… nothing important.”

“I’d be happy to hear it if you wanted to share it with me, Martin.”

“Really?” Martin couldn’t help asking. He remembered Jon’s words about his poetry, spoken into a recorder so long ago. _“Relatively awful… obviously enamored with Keats…”_ Martin pursed his lips. So much had changed between him and Jon, but there were still some things that hung unspoken between them.

Jon frowned, considering, and Martin knew he was remembering the same things Martin was. 

“Martin, I- I owe you an apology-”

“Jon, no, I-” Martin interrupted, but Jon squeezed his hand and shook his head.

“Please, just let me… I should’ve said this a long time ago. I owe you an apology for how I’ve treated you over the years. Especially, _especially_ back when we first moved to the Archives… there was so much pressure on me, with the uncertainty of Getrude, and the first statements that were more than just… unbased claims, and then everything that happened with Prentiss, and Elias, and Sasha and Basira… I took out my frustration on you. It was… it was unfair and wrong of me Martin, I- I don’t know how you ever managed to forgive me for that. I was… awful to you.”

“Jon…” Martin murmured, threading his fingers back through Jon’s hair. He didn’t know how to respond, for so long he had only ever wanted this- Jon, recognizing and apologizing for his behavior. But Jon had apologized and made amends in other ways over the years. Small moments when he would listen to Martin, ask his opinion, or try some misguided attempt to try and protect him. Small steps that were the only way Jon knew how to apologize for so long. And Martin had forgiven him, had loved him, had taken care of him as much as he could. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.” Martin’s heart beat in his throat. He knew how difficult it was for Jon to open up, much less to do something as vulnerable as say he was sorry. It meant… it meant a lot. Jon was watching him, pale with grief and guilt. “I’m sorry… for everything. There are a lot of things I’d… I’d do differently, if I could.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Martin whispered, and ran his hand along Jon’s back until he felt the tension leave his spine, little by little.

Jon pressed his cheek against Martin’s sternum, his gaze distant as he stared somewhere past the bedroom wall, and Martin suddenly realized how intimate their positions were. Legs curled together under the covers, Jon’s head on his chest, his arm around Jon’s shoulders and Jon’s around his waist, still holding hands. They were both fully clothed, but there was something about the early-morning sunlight and the warmth of the bed- _their bed?-_ that made the whole thing seem intimate and incandescent. 

“I… I’m sorry, too, Jon.” Martin looked up at the ceiling to avoid Jon’s gaze as he felt his head shift from its position on top of his chest. “I- I thought you were gone, and I didn’t know if you were coming back, and I thought joining Peter was my best chance at protecting everyone that was left. And by the time you came back I was already- it was too late, I was too deep, and I thought there was a chance he was right about the Extinction and I couldn’t run that risk. But I abandoned you when you needed- when you needed your support system.”

“Anchors,” Jon whispered.

“Right, yeah. But I… Jon, after you came back, everything I did for Peter… I was doing it to help protect you, to keep his and Elias- Jonah’s- attention off of you as much as I could.” 

“I know, Martin, I- I think I always knew that. You left the recorders around the coffin when Daisy and I were in the buried, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Georgie told me once- before the Unknowing, before… before we really understood the gravity of everything- that I needed people around me, to anchor me, as it were. To talk to- to all of you, but I think she also meant _you,_ Martin, specifically. You were always there to anchor me, to listen to me, even when you were neck-deep in Lukas’s business. Even- even when I didn’t think I deserved it.”

Martin looked down at Jon, met his inscrutable and unwavering gaze. “You always deserved it, Jon.” He said with all the conviction he had. 

“Martin-” Jon started to say, but Martin didn’t let him finish. He craned his neck- an awkward angle, but it was worth it- and placed a warm, intentional kiss on Jon’s mouth. 

Martin pulled away quickly, watching Jon’s face carefully for any sign he had misread their situation, but Jon was smiling up at him, a helpless kind of wonder in his eyes. 

“Martin,” He repeated, more firmly this time.

“Yes, Jon?” Martin was breathless.

“Kiss me again?” 

Martin’s only reply was to grin- broader than he had in months, maybe years- and sit up completely, turning Jon and pulling him upright alongside him. He slid his free hand- his other was still holding Jon’s, would be holding Jon’s hand for as long as he could manage- along Jon’s chin and tucked his fingers into the edge of his hair. 

Then, Martin leaned in and kissed him again. And again.

_And again._

The morning was golden and honey-soft, and Martin had never been happier.

* * *

They’d been in the safe house a few days already when the fog came back.

Martin and Jon had settled into a routine of sorts, had stopped clinging to each other every moment, like they were about to be dragged away. Jon would make tea and they’d have a simple breakfast from what they had in the kitchen, or walk together into town for food. They spent the majority of their days reading and talking, walking the area around the cottage. Meeting the cows that roamed the fields that bordered it. 

It was comfortable; a quieter life than Martin would’ve ever expected Jon to be content with, and a happier life than Martin would’ve ever expected for himself. The fog, the Loneliness, would hover sometimes in his periphery, threatening to pull Martin back in, but Jon was always right around the corner, or just downstairs, or close enough to come when Martin yelled. 

Jon was always enough to push the fog back into Martin’s memory, at least for the moment.

But one morning, Martin woke up to an empty, cold bed. 

That wasn’t altogether unusual. Most days, Jon woke up before Martin, and would slip away to the kitchen to make them tea, or light the fireplace to stave off the early morning chill. He liked to let Martin sleep, and for the most part, Martin appreciated it.

It was cold in the house, though, and Jon’s side of the comforter was cool to the touch in a way that implied he hadn’t been in bed for a while. Martin shivered.

“Jon?” He called, certain that his mounting anxiety was just residual fear from his time in the Lonely, his months of close proximity to Peter Lukas, his years of telling himself that he wasn’t enough; before Jon took his hand and promised not to let go. “Jon?” 

There was no response.

 _That_ was unusual.

Martin knew he should just get up and go check downstairs. That Jon was probably buried in a book, or asleep on the couch himself, not ignoring him. Not leaving him. 

But the room felt colder, and though the quilt Martin had piled on top of himself was thick, it wasn’t doing much to warm him up. His limbs felt dense and heavy, and the weight of the blankets was pushing him deeper into the mattress.

 _I’ll stay here,_ Martin told himself, _just until I’m warm, or Jon comes back up._ He curled up under the blankets, and rubbed his hands together in a desperate attempt to warm them up.

He tried not to think about how different it felt to Jon holding his hands, to how warm and gentle Jon’s palms and fingers always were. Martin’s hands stayed cold.

It was quiet, too, which was just as unnerving as the cold. Deathly quiet and still- no creaking movement from the old house, no faint music from Jon downstairs, no birdsong from outside. Martin strained and strained to hear something other than his own breathing until, suddenly, he realized he could hear something else.

Waves.

Distant, and staticky in a way Martin viscerally recognized.

 _No, no,_ he thought, his mind scrambling and spinning while his body froze, shock-still by the realization. _No, Jon got me out of there, I’m not back, he’s not here, no, I’m- I can’t-_

The blankets were heavy, and cold, and Martin felt the chill start to creep back, deep into his bones. He felt sharp grains of sand, pressing between his cheek and his pillow. The sound of the waves got louder, closer, and Martin couldn’t move. He wanted to sit up, to call out for Jon, but he couldn’t hear the sound of his voice over the waves.

The fog curled around him, twisting through his fingers, winding into his lungs and settling in his chest like sediment, dragging him even further into the cool embrace of his bed.

It was familiar, and almost comfortable, and Martin felt his fear become more distant, even as the familiarity of the Lonely made it more pronounced. He’d spent months here, after all, or at least he’d spent months bordering it. Months following Peter around, pulling away from the others- from Jon. It would scare Martin, how quickly he became Lonely again, if his mind hadn’t already been quieted by the rushing waves. 

_Even the fear is quiet here,_ Martin remembered telling Jon, their entire conversation flickering faintly in his memory. He felt his worries about Daisy, and the Not-Them, and Jon needing statements, and Jonah back at the Institute, and Basira all alone in London without them- he felt them all melt, deep into his bones, where they sat like ice at the base of his stomach. And the worst part- Martin couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Lonely didn’t ask anything of him, it never had; it only wanted him to stay, to bury himself in its cool sand, to let its waves wash away everything but the disquieting fear of being utterly Alone. 

Faintly, Martin heard something over the staticky crashing of the Lonely’s ocean. A door; opening and closing. Martin wanted to yell, to call for Jon, but he had already dragged Martin out of the Lonely once, who was to say whether he could do it again? What if he didn’t _want_ to do it again? 

“Martin? Martin-” A voice said, faint over the roar of the waves, but heart-wrenchingly familiar.

It was this- a warm hand on his shoulder, the only piece of warmth in this freezing place, a buoy against the thrashing water that was threatening to pull him under. 

It was this- Jon’s voice, firm and pleading, echoing in the emptiness of the Lonely, asking Martin to open his eyes.

It was this- Jon smiling at him softly, his expression unwavering and certain; in this, in Martin, in _them._

It was this- “Look at me, Martin, come back to me. I’m not going anywhere, you don’t have to be alone, come back to me, please.”

And Martin did.

They spent the rest of the day in bed, Martin curled around Jon with the quilt pulled high over them. When night fell, Jon helped him move into the living area and built a roaring fire in the fireplace. He made Martin tea, exactly how he liked it, and sat at Martin’s side, pressing their shoulders into each other with intention. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened, Martin?” Jon asked carefully, pointedly avoiding Asking him anything. 

Martin leaned his head against Jon’s shoulder, watching the fire dance in the hearth. “I…” he sighed, “I woke up this morning, and it was cold, and I couldn’t hear you downstairs, and it was so- so quiet. Too quiet, too similar to…”

“Ah,” Jon breathed, not in Knowing, but in understanding. “I’m so sorry, Martin. We were out of tea, and a few other things, and I just thought- I left you a note on the bedside table, but I… I’m sorry, Martin, truly.” Martin tilted his head to look up at Jon. He was frowning, forming tight lines between his eyebrows and at the corner of his mouth. It was a familiar expression on Jon, a specific kind of frown that Martin recognized- it meant Jon was lost in thought, wracked by guilt, and blaming himself for something. Martin hated to see it, hated that it was his fault Jon was feeling that way. 

“I don’t blame you, Jon,” Martin said, “I wouldn’t even blame you if you _had_ left-”

“Martin.” Jon interrupted him firmly, turning his body so Martin’s head was dislodged from his shoulder, and he was looking at Martin head on. “I’m not going to leave you. Not ever.” Jon winced, a flash of something like insecurity or doubt flying across his expression, “That is, I’ll stay, here or wherever you go, for as long as you’ll have me. But… Martin, I can’t imagine wanting a life without you in it. So I’m here; for you, with you, beside you, as long as you’ll let me stay.”

Martin had cried, intermittently, over the course of the day. Being pulled into and dragged out of the Lonely was exhausting, emotionally and physically, and Martin had always believed in the cathartic power and release of a good cry. Looking up at Jon, who was watching Martin with a terrified but certain look in his eyes, Martin felt the tears well up for the nth time that day. But this time, they were tears of happiness, gratitude, love.

“Alright,” Martin whispered, “Alright, Jon, I believe you.” The knowledge of Jon’s conviction, it warmed Martin down to his bones. He smiled, thin and watery, up at Jon, and the hopeful little grin he received in return took his breath away. “Jon, I-” he broke off. The words built up in Martin’s throat, begging to be said, and died in his mouth. He was so close to being sure, trusting that Jon felt the same, that he’d interpreted all the unspoken little things correctly. But a tiny part of him, the part that was still Lonely, that maybe always had been (that maybe always would be), worried that if he said it, he could never take it back. That it would ruin everything they’d both worked so hard to build. 

“I know, Martin,” Jon said, and traced a finger along Martin’s hairline- gentle and slow, like Martin was something precious, to be treasured and taken care of- “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.” Jon pressed a kiss to Martin’s cheek, devastatingly slow and careful, and when he pulled back, he whispered, “I love you too,” like it was the simplest, easiest thing in the world; another fact that Jon knew for certain. 

Martin glowed, warm down to his soul, and tucked his head into the place where Jon’s neck met his shoulder. “Thank you, Jon,” He whispered into the skin, and Jon rubbed a warm hand, up and down his spine. 

They stayed, curled into each other on the couch in front of the fireplace, for the rest of the night. They drank tea and talked quietly, and Jon read his book aloud to Martin, until he fell asleep in Jon’s arms, warm and comfortable and safe. 

It wasn’t perfect, there would always be bumps in the road, but they were getting there. It was good, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!!! comments and kudos always make my day <333  
> my tumblr is [@grasslandgirl](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/) if you want to shout with me about the hiatus or the finale or how much season 5 is gonna SUCK! my inbox is always open and i'm always looking for prompts so if there's something jm you want to read, send it on over and i'll see what i can do!!


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